


All That Remains

by neverevesangel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 02:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20520659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverevesangel/pseuds/neverevesangel
Summary: What do you do after saving the world?





	All That Remains

Where there was once a spacious, dusty bookshop, smoke and an orange glow now emanate from burnt-out ruins. They watch from a distance as the firefighters work on putting out the last of the flames. It is clear that hardly anything will remain of the structure.

“Three hundred years,” Aziraphale says shakily, his eyes fixed on the smouldering remains of his home. “Three hundred years I kept it in perfect shape. Three hundred years of souvenirs and books, _ priceless _ books, and _ wine_, and…” His voice catches in his throat. “Now it’s all gone. Just like that.”

Crowley swallows and takes his shades off to clean them on the hem of his shirt, another nervous habit he picked up in recent centuries. “Yeah. Sorry about this, angel.”

Aziraphale just shakes his head weakly. “Not your fault,” he whispers.

“I suppose.” Crowley replaces his shades and stares at the angel’s back, slumped shoulders and all, and for what he says next, he has to gather up all his courage (although it feels as though he used up most of it at that airbase in Lower Tadfield). “You know, my offer still stands. If you don’t know where to stay. Tonight.”

For a while, he’s certain the angel didn’t hear or that he’s ignoring him. It takes several minutes until Aziraphale finally tears his eyes away from the ruined bookshop and turns to face the demon. The grief in his eyes washes over Crowley like icy water.

“I would like that,” he says quietly. “You have my word that I'll stay out of your way.”

Crowley’s reply is a vague grunt which is the most casual reaction he can muster.

When the angel and he were not out and about, they usually withdrew to the bookshop. He can barely remember the last time Aziraphale had been in his flat (and then only briefly because the angel had begun muttering about a profound sense of fear in the air that made him uncomfortable). The thought of having Aziraphale in his home now - after centuries of invading the angel’s private space just for the fun of it - ties his stomach into an anxious knot.

They go on foot for once, the absence of the Bentley weighing heavy on the silence. Neither of them talk about their losses, or the fact that the world had just been saved against all odds. Somehow their sorrow and their relief balance each other out until there is only the shock that comes with all great change.

Soho's nightlife with its brilliant lights and laughter flashes past them like fleeting impressions from another world. They walk side by side, but each lost in their thoughts and farther apart than they have been ever since the beginning of the end eleven years ago. Crowley imagines them going back to their regular routine and it feels like loneliness coiling tightly around his neck.

_ Dining at the Ritz every once in a while. _

_ Storming into the bookshop when boredom strikes, but no more than once a month or else the angel gets the wrong idea. _

_ Sometimes meeting in St James’s to feed the ducks. _

Ordinary life does not include seeing the angel on a daily basis and somehow that has become unimaginable. There are multiple ways of expressing this thought that come to Crowley’s mind, all of them impossible to say out loud. He fumbles for Aziraphale's hand instead, wraps thin fingers around plump ones and holds on for all that is dear to him. He feels the angel beside him tense up in surprise. He feels startlingly blue eyes bore into the side of his face, but refuses to turn his head.

They arrive at his flat with hands clasped tightly. It is Crowley who lets go then, as if the skin of the angel had suddenly become poisonous.

“Guest room’s through there,” he mutters and vaguely waves a hand in the right direction. “Don’t mind the plants, they’re manipulative little bastards.”

“Oh, they seem perfectly fine to me. Myself, I have never been able to keep plants alive for long. I forget to water them, you see. One good book, and I tend to lose myself for…”

Crowley tunes the angel’s voice out until he is pleasant background chatter. He goes right for the liquor cabinet and pours himself a glass of Scotch. It burns his throat with the promise of oblivion.

“Don’t forget to sober up later, or you’ll regret it in the morning,” Aziraphale tells him sagely from somewhere down the corridor. He gets a noncommittal grunt in return. “Really, dear, your house plants seem to thrive _ terrifically._ Whatever is it that you put in their soil?”

“The fear of God,” Crowley mutters and that is at least partly the truth. “Go sleep, angel. It’s been a long day.”

“You _ know _ I don’t sleep. Virtue---”

“Yes, yes. Ever-vigilant. How could I forget. _ Temptation_, however, does take a nap on occasion, so if you would please excuse me.”

Crowley practically flees the room with the pressure of the unsaid building up in his throat until he can barely breathe. It is not so much the desire to be alone as it is all he’d rather tell the angel and how hard it is becoming to remember why it’s best to shut up.

Of course Aziraphale - stubborn, _ oblivious _Aziraphale - follows him all the way to his bedroom.

“Before you go to sleep, there is something I wanted to tell you, Crowley. Stop running away, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, what is it? Better get on with it, there’s at least a week’s worth of sleep to catch up on for me.”

“Just one thing.” This is Aziraphale, fidgety Aziraphale, wringing his hands and looking pained. “Just one little thing I meant to say. After everything that happened, we, well... just remember that we still have each other.”

For the first time since they have arrived, Crowley looks up to meet the angel’s gaze and Aziraphale stares back, eyes wide open and shining earnestly. There is something just below the familiar layer of kindness on his face that twists Crowley’s stomach almost unpleasantly, but he says nothing and returns his attention to his drink.

“We have both lost what was most dear to us today,” the angel continues. “And after what we did, well. There _ will _ be a reckoning. I doubt we have another week on this Earth.”

Crowley’s head snaps up and his eyes burn so fiercely, they shine through the shades. “It’s not _ fair_. Not after we went through all this trouble.”

“I know,” Aziraphale replies softly and takes a step closer. “None of this is right. But we always knew it couldn’t go on forever, didn’t we? We had six millennia, so much more than any of the mortals get. We had each other to last through the ages when everything else died.”

Crowley just stares, and the angel keeps advancing and it terrifies him. Part of him wants to drop the glass and run. Part of him tells him that _ yes_, this is what he’s been waiting for, wishing for. Slowly, as if driven by an invisible force, he reaches up and takes his shades off, to see the creature before him clearly for once, even if taking in all the angel’s brightness burns his eyes. Later he won't remember exactly where the shades and his glass ended up.

When Aziraphale stops before him, their noses are almost touching and Crowley has to bow down a little. With a courage he wasn’t aware of possessing, he lifts one hand to press against Aziraphale’s jaw, painfully aware of how his fingers quiver at the contact.

"Angel…"

Aziraphale raises his chin to catch his eye. “Say my name,” he asks quietly.

For a while, Crowley has to concentrate on his breathing and the ground under his feet to steady himself. There is the skin of the angel under his fingertips as he brushes them up along his jawline to touch his cheekbones, and the scent of the angel’s cologne that always struck him as overbearing but is so intoxicatingly _ him _ now that it sends the demon reeling.

“Aziraphale,” he whispers dazedly and the name is like a foreign prayer on his lips, blasphemous and forbidden. “_Aziraphale_.”

His eyes slip close when the angel - and that is who he’s always been, _ The Angel _ \- leans forward to press his lips against his neck, and there is his warm breath, too, tickling his skin. Without thinking he buries his hand in Aziraphale’s short, ash-blond curls and grips tightly, perhaps too tightly because the angel gasps and looks up.

It’s the desperate helplessness in the angel’s eyes that pushes Crowley into the madness entirely, the way he learns in that moment that angelic desire is not an antonym, and that _ this _ angel’s desire is for some unfathomable reason for _ him_.

He kisses him then, sloppily and off-center because he’s done it before but that was a long time ago and with someone else. One of his hands is still lost in the angel’s hair, but he reaches up with the other one to touch Aziraphale’s waist, sliding it underneath his suit coat and pressing hard into his skin. It occurs to him that perhaps, for the angel, he would have to learn to be gentle some day.

But not now, not when his mind has shut down and the need to be closer intensifies with every touch. He whirls the angel around to press him against the wall - or perhaps the cupboard or the next door, he doesn’t care too much - and feels Aziraphale’s fingers slide into his own hair. Almost involuntarily he flicks his forked tongue across the angel’s lips and feels him shudder violently in response.

They break apart then, and Crowley stares wide-eyed. He wants to ask if the angel is alright and if he wants this as much as he does but the words die on his lips when he catches the angel’s eye.

It is Aziraphale who reaches out a hand, and Crowley who takes it and leads him up to the roof where they can breathe easier and watch the city lights. They do not talk about what is to come because there is nothing to say that they don’t already know. Humanity at their feet hustles about in blissful ignorance while the angel and the demon find a silent agreement.

Whatever happens, dear.

_ Come what may_.

**Author's Note:**

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